Glasgow, Hannibal at Nice, and Waterloo sleeps somewhere hereabout, as
well as another nameless little dear."

"She is a good woman. She has collected all her proofs, and has come
hither with them voluntarily--has perhaps already arrived. Brussels,
where two of her marmots rest, is one of her most frequent stations.
That censorious Madame Kranich made a scene, but she had to yield to
conviction."

"A censorious Madame Kranich! Is the young duelist married?"

"What? No, no! It is Francine's guardian I speak of. Of late years she
has become a sort of Puritan abbess, seeking the Protestant society
which abounds in Belgium, and lamenting her husband, whom they say she
used to drug with opium."

"Then is she not Kranich's aunt?"

"Oh yes, an aunt by marriage; but he is not her nephew: I will die
before I call him so."

"Listen," said I, "Father Joliet. You are as full of information as an
oracle, but you are not coherent. This month past I have been hunting
down a chimaera, a hydra with a dozen heads: each head shows me by
turn the portrait of Fortnoye, or Francine, or yourself, or Kranich,
or Mrs. Ashburleigh. Ever since Noisy I have been meandering through
the folds of a mystery. My head is turning with it. If you want to
save me from distraction, sit down in this chair and answer me a long
catechism, without saying a word but in reply to my questions."